


From Dust to Dust

by queensraven



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: F/M, Ravka before the Fold, The Darkling as a teenager, The Darkling x Happiness (for like two seconds), brought to you by Aleksander Trash™ aka me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-05-21 07:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6042871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queensraven/pseuds/queensraven
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Darkling learns a lesson. He never has to be taught about it again.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Or Aleksander, young and lonely, falls in love. She dies. The end.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	From Dust to Dust

**Author's Note:**

> This oneshot explores Aleksander's life as a teenager, when he wasn't the man hardened by immortality that we saw and loved in the books. And there's a girl. Of course there's a girl.
> 
> Also, I had to imagine Ravka without the Fold. The True Sea is called the Ravkan Sea; Os Rostova is in the northwest near Fjerda; Os Iakova is a city just below Os Rostova; Volgovost is a river city in the southwest; and I merged Kribirsk and Novokribirsk into one, assuming it was once the largest city in Ravka until the Unsea separated them.
> 
> This was pre-read by my wonderful friends Kelly and Zora (aka distantdaylight). Thank you so much, guys!

**i.**

The boy breathes in and prepares himself for the journey ahead. It was time again to start a new life in their endless pattern, though _start_ was a bad word for it. It was time again for them to run.

It was a way of life he had gotten used to, and he did not mind it. The boy was smart to keep to himself—he did not make any friends, nor did he place sentiment on trifles he could not take with him.

There was never anything for him to leave behind. The boy convinced himself things were better such as they were: their life of hiding and running and leaving, always leaving.

 

**ii.**

“Feliks,” his mother called. “ _Feliks._ ” She had to repeat the name several more times before Feliks noticed.

He looked at his mother, almost an apology in his eyes. But she had taught him not to apologize, so he kept his stare as he answered to his new name. “Yes, _madraya_?”

“Go to the city and buy us bread and meat,” Varvara—which was the name his mother would assume for as long as they stayed here—said. They had settled in a small cottage on the outskirts of the city of Os Rostova, because it was easier to hide where there were plenty of people; these people were less likely to care about a mother and her young son, and even if they noticed the strangeness of the small family, gossip would not spread as quickly.

Feliks took the coin in his mother’s outstretched hand. “Get enough food to last us for a week.”

 

Os Rostova, a city in Western Ravka near the Fjerdan border, had a large marketplace. The shops and booths seemed endless, and it took him a while to find what he needed. With raw meat and fresh bread in hand, he went on the path to home. He passed by a small, strange store with many blocks and round shapes, which he realized were cheese. He went into the shop, because he had bread, and cheese would be good to have once the bread went stale.

There was a young girl standing at the counter, probably no more than his own age of sixteen. She had brown hair and a soft, heart-shaped face. There was almost a glow about her, but something in her face was dark, like she knew of sorrow and was no longer afraid of it. 

Feliks turned his gaze away. He would be gone again in a week, maybe a month. He did not make friends. 

He picked up a block of quark and took it to the counter. The girl greeted him with a warm smile, but he returned it with nothing but a stark stare. The girl’s smile didn’t falter as he paid, and she thanked him for his purchase.

Feliks ignored the girl. She would not be his friend.

 

**iii.**

The next time he entered the cheese shop, the girl was there again, the same soft expression on her face that made her look light and dark at the same time.

“Hello,” she greeted with a tentative smile. “Are you new to Os Rostova?”

“Yes,” he answered, bringing to the girl the same soft cheese he had gotten last week. He did not elaborate on his answer further.

“My name is Anatolyanna,” she continued. “What’s yours?”

She was stubborn. Despite his unsociableness, she kept on with her attempts to get him to speak.

“My name is Feliks.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Feliks,” she said, her smile growing wider.

He did not understand what the girl— _Anatolyanna_ —wanted to achieve by talking to him. But she was the first person who was not his mother to ever look at him with anything other than disdain or insouciance—and such disdain or insouciance was often a mask for the fear he inspired in people because of his uncongenial nature and indisputable otherness.

The ghost of a smile almost made it onto his face, but he took the brown bag of cheese from the girl and left the shop behind.

 

**iv.**

Sometimes Feliks would come to the shop even when he did not need to get cheese, but he bought the girl’s cheese anyway, because she was small and frail and he wanted to make sure that she had coin to buy food with. No one could live on cheese, after all.

 

As the weeks went by, Feliks lingered at the cheese shop more and more after he had gotten his bag of quark. He talked with Anatolyanna, and he learned that it was her father who made all the cheese for the store. They lived above the shop in a small apartment. Her mother had passed away when she was a little girl, so she tried to help her father with what she could.

Feliks could not talk about himself, so instead he talked of the places he had traveled to, even though it was one of his mother’s rules not to tell anyone of their travels. He told her about Os Kervo, the city on the coast of the Ravkan Sea; the city of Os Iakova, which was Os Rostova’s neighboring city; the two river cities, Ryevost and Volgovost; and he told her about Kribirsk, the largest city in Ravka, larger than even the capital. He told her about Os Alta, which was where they brought Grisha and those who aided them to face death. 

She told him how much she loved Os Rostova. This was where her mother had been born and raised, just like her. She adored the place, and even though she dreamed of visiting the rest of Ravka, she would never leave her home for good.

He saw that she was kind and selfless and simple. She wanted nothing beyond the life she already had and was grateful for it.

 

“What is it about the cheesemaker’s daughter that absorbs you?” Varvara said, piercing their quiet breakfast months after they had settled in their new but temporary home. 

Of course his mother had noticed his attention for the girl. He had taken her to Os Iakova for a day, where they sampled small cakes and candies until they thought they would burst and sought out little trinkets to take home. There was also no doubt that his mother had noticed his subtle attempts of delaying the inevitable, when they had to leave Os Rostova behind. They stayed for nothing and no one.

He put more bread and cheese in his mouth and said nothing in response. The silence stretched on, and Feliks almost thought that his mother was leaving the subject alone. 

Her next words were a warning, meant to wound—but the truth always did. “She will die. Before you can blink your eye. You’ll outlive her by a hundred years, maybe a thousand, maybe more. She’s only dust to you.”

He recognized the words as the exact same ones she had uttered when he had asked about his father as a child. Back then, he had taken the words to heart. Now he ignored them.

 

Anatolyanna had a smile made to heal. Every time she smiled at Feliks, he felt like he was looking into the sun, all warmth and brightness.

And he let himself be lit up and warmed.

 

**v.**

For the first time in his life, Feliks had to leave something—someone—behind. And it was strange, because he did not know how to leave anything behind. He knew of leaving, but never to leave without something he wanted to keep.

He had thought about going away without speaking to Anatolyanna, because it would be better for her if he disappeared without any promise to return. Yet Feliks, selfish as he was…

They were walking down the shore of the vast Ravkan Sea, hand in hand. He looked at her small feet as they walked and noticed how even her gait was serene and unassuming. Then he looked out at the setting sun, painting the sky a furious red orange and a gentle pink. And he knew that he could no longer delay telling her about his imminent departure.

“Anatolyanna,” he called gently, squeezing her hand.

She turned to him, smiling her smile that was as blinding as the sun behind her. 

Suddenly, he realized that he was about to break her heart, and he wished with his entire being that he did not have to do so.

“I have to leave,” he said, barbed words spoken softly.

She looked at him in surprise, hazel eyes full of questions. “I thought we were staying for the night.”

“Yes, we are,” he affirmed. “I meant that once we go back to Os Rostova, I will leave.”

She pulled her hand back and frowned. She turned to face the waves, crossing her arms across her chest. He watched as she stared at the sunset, a tear rolling down her cheek.

“I knew you could never stay,” she said, voice cracking. “But I still hoped you would. How foolish I am.”

He wanted to tell her not to waste her tears on him, that he was far more foolish than she, that he didn’t want to leave. But the words stayed stuck in his throat.

She faced him again, touching a warm hand to his cheek. “Promise me that you won’t forget me.”

“I could never forget you,” he whispered. “Not if I live a thousand years.”

She leaned into him, closing the distance between their lips. He let her get lost in the kiss, because he could leave her with this—memories of a fiery sunset and soft lips and hot sand beneath her feet.

“Where will you go?” she asked breathlessly after they pulled away.

He did not answer. He didn’t want to make up any more lies for her. Instead, he gave her his name, because it was the only truth he could give her.

“If you ever come back… you’ll know where to find me, Aleksander,” she whispered. She walked away from him to the edge of the shore, letting the water lap at her toes and her white dress get blown in the wind. 

 

**vi.**

It took him six years before his resolve crumbled and he went back to Os Rostova. He found her in the same tiny, run-down home she had lived in with her father, but in the store, there was no cheese to fill the shelves.

When she opened the door and found him standing there, she had burst into loud, racking sobs. She hugged him as tight as her tiny frame could manage, and he hugged her back, wishing it could put her back together. And he wanted to find it, whatever had broken her like this, and make it suffer as she had.

She looked like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. She was even thinner than before, and her eyes that had been so full of light looked extinguished. She told him that her father had been executed with the charge of helping Grisha. He had let a Heartrender spend the night in their home to wait out a vicious hurricane, and when the Heartrender left, he stole a loaf of bread from the bakery next to their store. 

Something inside him stirred, and the words written upon his heart to make a haven for Grisha rose anew. He promised himself again that he would end the injustice for those who were forced to beg and surrender because of the power they yielded when he knew they could rule the world instead.

And it was for that reason that he left her again, telling her that he would come back, but not before he had changed Ravka.

 

**vii.**

More than a decade passed.

He came back to her as a general, the first Grisha to lead the King’s Army. He wished he could tell her, to see if she would be proud, but Grisha were still seen as dangerous and he would not risk her life for his own petty hankering. 

“Aleksander?” she asked in awe. He gave her a rare smile, one that would remind her of sweet treats and fleeting kisses and the foam of the tide chasing her as she ran.

“Oh, Aleksander!” Her smile that was as bright as the sun was back, and he felt warm again, like she was filling up the empty holes in his heart. And he realized that the tightness in his chest that he hadn’t noticed was there until it was unraveling inside of him was because he had missed her.

She ushered him into the house, and in an instant, he saw the changes. The shelves were gone. The creaky floorboards had been replaced with cherrywood, and the furniture was simple but elegant. The colors of the walls were soft, and the sunlight streaming in from the windows made the house look cheerful. It was a home built upon tenderness.

He sat by a table next to a large open window as Anatolyanna disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later, she came back with a silver tray of tea and butter cookies. She grinned and put the tray on the table. He poured the tea into the small cup, then dropped three sugar cubes into the liquid. 

A soft, tinkling laugh graced his ears. He shot her a questioning look.

“You still put too much sugar into your tea,” she giggled, shaking her head. “Saints, how does one drink such sickeningly sweet tea?”

“It is easier than you think,” he said, cracking a tiny smile and making a show of taking a long sip from the cup.

He waited for the burning questions; he waited for her to ask where he had been and what he had done and why he had come back—but the interrogation never came. Perhaps she knew that he would not give the answers, so she learned not to ask the questions.

He encouraged her to talk about her life in the last decade. Twelve years must have felt like an eon to her; to him, it was nothing more than a short clap of thunder.

The sunlight streamed in directly from the window next to them, and the soft, yellow light shone on her face. He stared at her shamelessly, and as the light shifted on her face, he saw the colors of her eyes shifting, too. He saw flecks of green and specks of brown and gold; it was entrancing, like her eyes could not decide what color to be. 

She talked about her family—her husband Kazimir and their nine-year-old daughter. She talked of meeting her husband three years after the last time Aleksander had showed up at her door and how she felt like it had saved her life. She talked of her daughter, Konstantina, and described her as an angel. She talked about how almost every day she thought of him and the days they had spent together. She talked about getting over her losses and how time—when you were patient enough—could heal even the most painful wounds.

Aleksander watched and listened to her, delightfully riveted. There was something different about her. Her cheeks were fuller, her lips were redder, her brown hair looked brighter, and the darkness he had seen on her face as a young girl was gone. With a start, he realized that she was happy. More than that, even. She looked peaceful. 

The tightness in his chest was back—but this time, it was a lighter kind of pain. She was living a life he could never have given her. It was bittersweet, but even then, he did not have a single shred of yearning to take her husband’s place. 

He had an army to lead and a country to change.

 

**viii.**

Almost another decade later, it is fury that brings him back to Os Rostova. 

The Grisha had been granted with fragile citizenship, and while Ravka accepted this with wary acquiescence, its neighboring countries did not. Fjerda had attacked the city nearest to its border with Ravka—hundreds of lives were lost, and the Darkling took the Second Army to Os Rostova for the claiming of justice where it was due.

When the young girl with hazel eyes and brown hair opened the door he had knocked on, he thought that he had somehow stepped back in time. But this girl did not have the sun for a smile, nor did she envelop him into a bone-crushing hug or talk to him like an old but welcome friend. The girl was cold and unkind, but still, she showed him to her mother’s grave.

He was somehow thankful that Anatolyanna had died of a sickness rather than in the attacks, because if she had, he would have marched on Fjerda and Cut every single one of their soldiers in half.

There at her grave, he let himself grieve for her. He remembered his mother’s warning, and he saw how right she was. 

And he realized that if he let this happen again—to let himself want and fall and love—he would always be left behind, alone at a tombstone. Aleksander thought that she was his rising sun, but Anatolyanna had been the flame from a matchstick; she had burned hot and bright, but still too small and temporary to light up his darkness. There would be no sun for him.

**Author's Note:**

> Feliks - happy or lucky  
> Anatolyanna (ana-tol-yah-na) - derived from Anatoly, meaning east and sunrise
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
